


Femslash February Collection 2019

by vixleonard



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Adultery, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Angst, Cunnilingus, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Femslash February, Forbidden Love, Light Angst, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Pregnancy, Secret Crush, Sex Work, Strap-Ons, Tribadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-10-20 16:37:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 18,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17625896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vixleonard/pseuds/vixleonard
Summary: 28 days, 28 different femslash prompts





	1. Opposites (Brienne/Sansa)

Brienne has never cared much for soft things. Even as a child her large hands seemed too rough, too clumsy; beautiful garments snagged, toys broke, delicate china shattered, and every time Brienne found herself apologizing, humiliated at her oafishness. Some people, she decided, were not meant for soft things, and once Brienne put away any interest in those things, her life was simpler if not easier. She is a warrior, a knight; she is made for armor and swords, fights to the death and oaths sworn on her honor.

Sansa is soft. Brienne doesn't mean that in the way most people speak of highborn ladies. Mayhaps there was a time when Sansa Stark was soft in every way, but she is a lady forged by fire, a woman who has seen unspeakable things and lived to tell the tale. There is nothing cruel about her, but the Lady of Winterfell does not suffer fools. Brienne respects that. Too many men think any woman is less than them, and Sansa has made it clear to everyone that she will no longer be thought of that way. Sansa is hard when she needs to be, but when they are like this, she is softer than anyone or anything Brienne ever hoped to have.

"Kiss me," Sansa breathes after they have undressed, Brienne still shy despite how often they've done this. She will keep her shirt on until Sansa asks her to remove it, but right now her lady fists the material in her hands and tugs Brienne down to her.

Brienne always worries she is going to kiss her too hard, touch her too roughly, but Sansa doesn't complain. Instead she hums with pleasure against Brienne's lips, opening her mouth to accept the tentative brush of Brienne's tongue. Brienne carefully braces herself over her lover's body, mindful of the difference in their sizes. The first time they'd laid like this, Brienne whispered her fear she'd crush Sansa beneath her, and Sansa laughed, carded her fingers through Brienne's short hair, and assured her she wouldn't.

"I thought of this all day," Sansa says as she parts her long legs, bending them to frame Brienne's body. "The lords must think I am a bubble head for how often I made them repeat themselves."

"You are anything but," Brienne manages, still unused to such easy conversation, her lips tracing the elegant arch of Sansa's neck. 

"Well I could hardly tell them I didn't hear what they said because I was imagining my knight's tongue between my thighs." Sansa inhales deeply through her nose as Brienne's tongue flicks across her right nipple. "It's all your fault, you and your wonderful mouth."

Brienne feels her cheeks warm even as she struggles not to smile, her lips trailing over her lady's ribcage. "A thousand pardons, my lady."

She giggles as Brienne kisses the hollow of her stomach. "Yes, you seem quite contrite."

Brienne glides her hands down the outside of Sansa's legs before taking her knees in her hands. Sansa's skin is softest here, and Brienne trails her calloused fingertips along the inside of her thighs. Sansa shivers, parting her legs wider for Brienne's broad shoulders, and as Brienne bends to taste her, Sansa catches her chin. Their blue eyes meet, and before Brienne can ask what is wrong, Sansa asks, "May I...I'd like to do the same to you tonight if you'll let me."

Brienne wants to look away. She isn't ashamed of what she and Sansa have, doesn't think what they do is dirty. She isn't certain why she will not let Sansa taste her. All she knows is that each time her lady asks, Brienne thinks of another reason why it is not the right time.

"I don't - I'm not certain - "

Sansa rests her thumb against Brienne's mouth. "There will be other nights. I want you to be sure."

Brienne wants to tell her she is sure of so many things: that she loves her, that she'd die for her and it has nothing to do with her oath to Catelyn Stark, that she wishes she could wed her in the godswood like a man could, that she wishes she could take her like a husband takes a wife and put a child in her belly, that she never thought she'd have a love at all but especially not one as wonderful as this. Brienne wants to say it all but instead she kisses Sansa's bent knee and whispers, "How are you so soft?"

"Only for you, my love," Sansa says before sighing in pleasurable relief as Brienne's tongue glides up her center.

Brienne sometimes worries she is too hard, too rough, too _much_. But if someone as wondrously soft as Sansa Stark loves her, mayhaps there is hope for her yet.


	2. Pink (Elia/Lyanna)

When Elia's eyes linger too long on her husband's new wife, the girl blushes. It isn't the fierce sort of blush some of the ladies of court have, a hideous flare of red filling their cheeks and making them resemble tomatoes. Instead Lyanna Stark turns a light shade of pink, the color brightening her pale face, sometimes spreading down the long line of her neck and disappearing into her gown.

Elia desperately wants to know how far down Lyanna's blush extends.

Ashara tells her she's shameless, tormenting the girl with her flirtations and innuendos. Elia smiles and waves her best friend off, assuring her she has to make her own fun when it comes to the dreariness inside the Red Keep. Though they've never had secrets between them, Elia doesn't tell Ashara that she likes Rhaegar's new bride, that she's attracted to her. It isn't as if Elia hasn't had dalliances with ladies before; that's what Rhaegar calls them, her "dalliances." He has always looked away when Elia invited a lady to her bed, and so she supposes Rhaegar assumed she'd look the other way when he brought home a young, new wife.

The fact that his interest and hers have aligned in the same woman is...a complication, one Elia is going to need to navigate carefully.

"You have the loveliest complexion," Elia tells her one evening as Lyanna sits in front of the looking glass in Elia's chambers. Elia gathers Lyanna's dark hair to fall down her back and as her fingers trace the line of Lyanna's collarbones, her skin begins to pinken again. "I have a necklace that will be perfect for you, if you'd like to borrow it."

"That would be wonderful, thank - " Lyanna's breath catches as Elia's fingers begin to trace the neckline of her gown. "Thank you, your grace."

"You are a princess now too, sweetling. You must call me by my name." Elia meets her gaze in the looking glass, smiling warmly. "I'd like us to be friends, Lyanna. Would you like that?"

"Oh, yes." A tremulous breath slips past her lips as Elia brushes the softest of kisses behind her ear. "It would be wonderful to have a friend here."

"Did you have many... _friends_ at Winterfell?" Elia asks, careful fingers tugging at the laces in the front of Lyanna's gown. The knot gives way with a firm tug, and as Elia begins to pull them loose, Lyanna's thin shift comes into view. 

"Just one, a - a girl in the kitchens." Lyanna shivers as Elia's hand cups her breast from behind, Elia's thumb thrumming over the tightened nipple. "I didn't think - Do many ladies have friends like that?"

"In Dorne, they do." Elia kisses her warm, pink cheek. "I would love to show you all Dorne has to offer."

"But what about Rhaegar?" Lyanna asks as Elia loosens the strings of her shift, urging it down her shoulders to pool at her narrow waist.

Lyanna's blush extends all the way down her chest, her body as pink as if she'd just stepped out of a hot bath. Elia cups Lyanna's chin, turning her face towards hers. After taking her mouth in a lingering kiss, Elia murmurs against the younger girl's lips, "You let me worry about Rhaegar."


	3. Lost (Dany/Sansa)

"You don't like me."

Sansa looks up from the letter she is writing to meet the lilac gaze of the Dragon Queen. For once she is not flanked by her men, just a slight woman looking out of place in the grey North and yet there is still something about her that reminds Sansa of Cersei Lannister and the way her mere presence in a room demanded attention. 

"Do queens care if their subjects like them or not?"

The hint of a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "No, I suppose most do not, but I have never wanted to be that sort of queen." Taking a seat opposite of Sansa, she adds, "And _am_ I your queen, Lady Sansa? Did you not support the independence of the North with Jon Snow as its king?"

"I support whatever is best for the North, for Winterfell. Jon trusts you."

"And that is enough for you?"

She sets down her quill, taking a calming breath as she tries to collect the right words. Finally she settles on, "Jon is a good, honorable man who sometimes puts his trust in the wrong people the same as the rest of us. I worry about him because he is my brother before he was ever my king or protector."

Daenerys's smile is sad now. "I never knew my brother Rhaegar, but my brother Viserys...I have seen how loss and betrayal can twist a man into something dark and terrible. Jon is different."

"He is." Trying to channel some of Cersei's steel, she asks, "Is that why you've taken him to your bed?"

One of the queen's dark eyebrows arches. "Mayhaps you speak too freely."

"If you are to be my good-sister, is there such a thing as too free?"

Daenerys's smile is wide and true now. "Tyrion said men underestimated you. He told me I'd like you. He's right."

"You flatter me with your friendship, your grace."

Daenerys reaches across the table, her hand covering Sansa's. Sansa watches as the older woman turns her hand over, studying the lines of her palm, tracing them with a gentle finger. "There are whispers about you throughout the castle, Lady Sansa. Do you know what they say?"

"Gossip is constant in every castle."

"They say," Daenerys continues, "that Lady Stark prefers the company of ladies in her bed to that of men. What do you think of this gossip?"

Sansa can feel the warmth in her cheeks but she does not break the queen's gaze. "I think there must be more interesting items to discuss than my bed partners."

"I confess I haven't found my bearings here yet," Daenerys says, her fingers now dancing across the latticework of veins on Sansa's wrist, sending fire up Sansa's arm. "and as kind as Jon is, he doesn't have the sort of...guidance I was hoping to find."

Sansa hates how breathy her voice is as she says, "Is that so?"

"I hear your chambers are the warmest in the castle."

"They are."

"Then tell me, Lady Sansa, would you mind if I joined you this evening? It's been so awfully chilled in my rooms, and how will I ever be able to find my way in the North without such an...experienced hand to show me your ways?"

"It is my duty as Lady of Winterfell to serve."

"From your knees?"

True desire flaring in Sansa's stomach, she drops her eyes the way she learned from Margaery ages ago when playing demure and murmurs, "Oh, I can serve from many positions, your grace."


	4. Cafe (Margaery/Asha)

The first time Asha sees the girl in the coffee shop, she is attracted to her but also not enough to bother flirting with her. Asha has very few rules when it comes to hitting on women and usually Asha loves a challenge, but one too many bicurious sorority girls in a row has made Asha promise herself that she will only hook up with women for the next six months that won't pretend not to know her in public and/or force her to hide in a literal closet so their roommates don't realize the person responsible for making them moan was Asha.

So yes, the girl with the long brown hair, green eyes, and plunging neckline just begging for attention is attractive but no, Asha is not giving into temptation.

The second time she comes in, Asha is the one responsible for making her drink. It is an iced sugar monstrosity with almond milk that Asha is certain is more milkshake (well, almond milkshake) than actual coffee. And if she just so happens to see the name written on the side is "Marjorie" and when she calls said name and sees that the girl is wearing a tank top for the local university, well, it's not Asha's fault she has eyes.

It _is_ Asha's fault she tries to find her on Facebook that night. After all, how many girls named Marjorie can there be on campus? The answer, as she learns, is zero.

The third time, Asha is working the register and takes the girl's order for the same iced diabetic coma as she ordered the last time. When Asha asks in a bored tone, "Name?" even though she knows damn well what the girl's name is, the girl shakes a piece of hair out of her eyes and sighs.

"Just put Marge."

The Sharpie in her hand poised above the cup, Asha can't help but blurt out, "Like Simpson?"

Marge Not-Simpson smiles. "You wouldn't spell it right anyway, so why bother?"

Asha scrawls "Marge" on the cup, accepts the girl's money, and begins to wonder how many different ways you can spell "Marjorie."

Theon's buddy Robb is hanging out at their apartment when she gets off work. As far as her brother's friends go, Robb is the most decent of them and the only one enrolled at the college, which is why she asks him if he knows a girl named Marjorie or Marge.

Robb doesn't even hesitate. "Yeah, Margaery Tyrell. She's the President of the Student Senate."

The Student Senate webpage identifies all the officers by name and picture, and, sure enough, "Marge" from the coffee shop is actually Margaery Tyrell. A little light Google stalking turns up her Facebook, her Instagram, and a variety of articles about public service projects she's spearheaded and her family's reputation for philanthropy around the state. Asha has never been above sliding into a girl's DMs before and almost does so after finding a picture of Margaery posing on a beach in a bikini so small, it leaves nothing to the imagination, but Asha reminds herself that for all her internet research, she has no proof Margaery Tyrell is into women and she is still on her straight girl fast.

The fourth time Margaery comes into the coffee shop, Asha is on break, seated in one of the leather chairs in the front window, wondering why she agreed to a double. She isn't looking at the door so she misses Margaery's entrance but then the girl drops into the chair opposite Asha's, setting her expensive handbag at her feet. Asha takes the headphones out of her ears to be polite, but the last thing she expects to hear come out of the other girl's mouth is, "So are you going to ask me out or what?"

"Excuse me?"

"I see you checking me out when I'm in here. You're attracted to me."

Struggling to compose herself in the midst of ambush, Asha manages, "Well, you're hot."

"Thank you. So are you. It's the reason I keep coming in here when I fucking hate coffee. So instead of forcing me to come in here and pay for something I don't even want, why don't we meet somewhere we'll both enjoy, like a bar? Or my bedroom?"

Asha laughs. "Is this you being subtle?"

"Yes. If I wasn't being subtle, I'd tell you that I want to fuck you so hard, you forget your own name, but I've been told I come on a little strong so I'm trying something new."

Desire exploding in her belly, Asha glances at the time on her phone. "I like coming on strong."

Margaery grins. "Then I think we're going to have one hell of a night."


	5. Sharp (Cat/Cersei)

She's not a nice person. Cat knew this the moment they met when Cersei used her tongue, as sharp as a straight razor, to reduce Lysa to tears with a pointed remark about her weight. Only a few days in her presence and Cat witnesses how often Cersei makes those around them bleed, her face deceptively placid, voice almost bored as she carves a person to the bone. There is darkness in Cersei, some malicious monster that lives in her chest and needs fed. Catelyn does not like Cersei Lannister, and if her father hadn't begged her to please be kind as the Lannisters are their guests, Cat would've told Cersei precisely what she thought of her.

Cersei _is_ beautiful. Her golden hair is long with curls at the end, and her green eyes remind Cat of emeralds. She always seems acutely aware of every man's eyes on her, and she alternates between paying no attention to it and arching her back just so to draw more attention. Cat isn't someone with low self-esteem and she knows she's pretty as well, but there is something captivating about Cersei's beauty that Cat does not possess. Despite her best efforts, Cat finds her own eyes following their guest, taking in the curve of her waist, the swell of her breasts, the elegant line of her neck. Just because she does not like Cersei does not mean she cannot appreciate another woman's beauty.

"I'd like to go swimming," Cersei says after a week at Riverrun, the words more of a demand than a request. Catelyn wants to tell her that she doesn't really care _what_ Cersei wants, but it is uncommonly hot this afternoon with a sweltering humidity on top of it. 

"I'll see if Lysa and Edmure want to join us if you'd like to ask your brother - "

"Just us," she interrupts, her tone reminding Cat of the one she's heard Cersei use with the servants. "I really don't want to spend my time minding children."

Cat almost points out that Jaime and Lysa are hardly children and she'd most certainly never trust her to keep Edmure safe, but Cat is nothing if not her father's daughter and it is important to keep the Lannisters happy, especially if they want Lord Tywin to agree to a betrothal between Lysa and Jaime.

Cat isn't certain how she feels about wedding Brandon Stark one day, but she wouldn't wish Cersei Lannister as a good-sister on her worse enemy, least of all her little sister.

The river is moving fast today, and as Catelyn removes her slippers and dips her toe in, it is the perfect temperature as well. She turns to tell Cersei this but stops short as she sees Cersei has already shed her gown and is in the process of untying her shift.

"What are you doing?"

Cersei looks at her as if she is simple. "I said I wanted to go swimming."

"But - " Cat looks around, wondering if her septa is going to appear or mayhaps her father, either one screaming about how she is ruining House Tully's name. "It isn't proper to swim without our shifts. What if a man comes by?"

Cersei smirks. "Then I suppose he'll see my teats."

And then she whips her shift over her head.

The teats in question, which Catelyn does not want to stare at but for some reason cannot stop looking at, sit high on Cersei's chest, two mounds topped with pink nipples lighter in color than Catelyn's own. They are not as big as Catelyn's own breasts, and Cat thinks if she was to try to cup them in her hands, they'd fit perfectly inside her palms. Then she feels her face heat from the thought because she is betrothed and doesn't even like Cersei Lannister anyway.

The hair between Cersei's thighs is darker than the golden hair on her head. Cat pretends she doesn't notice that either.

She hasn't swam without her shift since flowering several years ago, but Cat finds herself folding her shift atop her gown so as not to incite Cersei's sharp words. As she begins to wade into the river, Cersei, who now stands waist deep in the rushing water, watches her, those green eyes unnerving in their refusal to blink.

"What?" Catelyn cannot help but ask, her arms instinctively crossing over her bare breasts.

"Have you let Brandon Stark fuck you?"

The question startles the air from Cat's lungs. "No! Of course not!"

"I've heard he fucks everything that moves." 

"Well he hasn't fucked _me_ ," she snaps, her voice almost as sharp as Cersei's usually is, and it doesn't even occur to her until later that it is the first time she's said that word aloud.

Her smile is anything but pleasant. "Doesn't seem quite fair, does it? He gets to go out, sticking his cock in anyone he chooses, and you just have to sit at home and wait, never knowing what it's like to be touched by anyone but him."

"It's the way the world is."

Cersei closes the distance between them, and Cat thinks she should pull back. She thinks she should go back to shore, put her shift and gown back on, and march back to the castle, going straight to her father and swearing she is done playing hostess to vile Cersei Lannister. 

Instead she stands stock still as Cersei tucks a lock of Cat's hair behind her ear and murmurs, "Brandon Stark isn't going to have the slightest idea what to do with you. You won't even know what you're capable of feeling."

"What do you mean?"

The way Cersei's smile glints in the sunlight reminds Cat of a blade. "Let me show you."


	6. The Moon (Arya/Shireen)

She always thinks of Arya as a shadow, a bit of disembodied darkness that follows people around Winterfell but doesn't exist on her own. It's easy to think of her that way when she's silent and scowling in the great hall or dancing around crossing swords with Brienne in the yard. For the first few months Shireen was at Winterfell, saved from the Red Woman's fire and heartbroken over the fact that her father was willing to let her burn for a crown, she didn't think she'd shared a single conversation with Arya. Between the scars on her face and the scars on her heart, Shireen has had enough darkness in her life, and she doesn't want to take on more in the form of Arya Stark.

And then one day, apropos of nothing, while Shireen sits in the yard with Rickon, patiently writing letters in the dirt for the little boy to imitate, Arya looks at her and says matter-of-factly, "You're really quite pretty."

No one other than Davos has ever called her pretty, and Shireen realizes as Arya disappears into the godswood that she'd pulled her hair back earlier in the day so her greyscale was in full view. She wonders aloud if Arya was mocking her and Rickon gives her a look as if she is simple and says, "Arya doesn't lie."

A few days later she is playing cards with Jon in his solar. She is grateful to him for taking her in after what happened, and even at the Wall she'd liked him. Arya comes in to tell him of some minor crisis, and he asks Arya if she'd like to take over his hand while he deals with it. They've played two hands in silence before Shireen blurts out, "Why did you say I was pretty the other day?"

"Because I think you're pretty." Arya discards and picks up another card. "Isn't that why people compliment each other?"

"Were you trying to be kind?"

Her brows furrow. "I was trying to say you looked pretty."

"But I'm not."

Arya lays down her cards, winning the game. "We'll agree to disagree."

Arya kisses her three days later. Shireen has cornered her near the stables, still confused about the compliment a week later, and as she rambles on about how she doesn't need empty compliments and she's aware of what her face looks like from the greyscale, Arya watches her, expressionless as usual, and then the next thing Shireen knows she is pressed back against the outer wall of the stables, Arya's mouth firm and warm against hers. The feel of Arya's small breasts pressed against hers makes Shireen warm in a way she doesn't expect, and Shireen has just started to truly enjoy the kiss when Arya pulls away.

"I said you were pretty because I think you're pretty," she says, her breath misting over Shireen's lips, "and in case you're confused, I kissed you because I wanted to kiss you."

Shireen finds herself constantly waiting for Arya now, the two of them stealing any moment they can to kiss. When Arya suggests they sneak out to the hot springs one night after everyone is abed, Shireen almost says no, terrified by how much she feels for this girl so wrapped in darkness.

Beside the hot springs as they undress, Shireen steals a glance at Arya and her breath catches. In the light of the moon, Arya is luminous, and when she looks at Shireen and smiles, it glows with happiness.

As they slip into the hot water, Shireen thinks that mayhaps Arya _is_ a shadow but sometimes she is also the sun.


	7. Disaster (Sansa/Jeyne Westerling)

When Sansa arrives home for Christmas, she knows a blizzard is fast behind her. However, after three finals, an 8-hour drive, and weeks with little-to-no sleep, Sansa manages to stay awake just long enough to have dinner with her parents and younger siblings before going upstairs and collapsing face down on her bed to sleep for the next fourteen hours. At some point during the night she wakes long enough to hear someone moving around in the bathroom connecting her room to Robb's, and she assumes her big brother and his new girlfriend must've been delayed by the blizzard and came late before falling back asleep.

After sleeping more in a single night than she has in the past week, Sansa rolls out of bed and stumbles towards the bathroom. And when she steps inside to find Robb's new girlfriend brushing her teeth at the sink, Sansa wonders if this is what a heart attack feels like because Robb's new girlfriend is _definitely_ the girl Sansa had sex with two weeks ago at Margaery's house party.

The brunette freezes, her mouth covered in foam from her toothpaste, and Sansa would laugh if she wasn't trying not to vomit. After an excruciating long pause, Sansa mumbles an apology for intruding and closes the bathroom door before beginning to pace the length of her bedroom. One glance out the window confirms there is, at least, a foot of snow outside, and as far into the country they are, the chances of the plows reaching them anytime soon are slim, so an actual escape is unlikely. She could fake sick, but if she tried to stay in bed for more than two days, her mother would definitely try to force her into seeing Dr. Luwin. Not to mention that short of feigning mono, there's no reasonable excuse for staying in bed for the next 10 days. If she was Arya, she'd confront Robb's Girlfriend (and Sansa can't believe she slept with her brother's girlfriend and _can't even remember her name_!) and chew her up one side and down the other for cheating on Robb. Of course, if she was Arya, she also would've probably just punched Girlfriend in the bathroom. No, the only solutions, as far as Sansa sees it, is she can either act like it never happened, putting on the greatest show of her life, or she can be a mature adult and confront Girlfriend alone to discuss how they are going to handle things.

Sansa is fully committed to pretending she has never seen Robb's girlfriend before in her life.

"Sansa, this is Jeyne," Robb says at breakfast, and Sansa smiles, shakes Jeyne's hand, and pretends she does not know the sound Robb's girlfriend makes when she comes.

Jeyne, Sansa learns over the course of the day, met Robb when he drunkenly tried to break into her apartment thinking it was his own. Both of them are getting their MBAs, and Robb insists Jeyne is a genius while she blushes. Sansa hates that she knows Jeyne also blushes if you whisper to her how sweet her cunt tastes. By the third day, Sansa thinks she knows almost everything about Jeyne Westerling, and that includes the fact that apparently Jeyne likes to have sex with women.

Christmas Eve, Sansa is reading in bed when Jeyne enters her room via the bathroom. Sansa sits straight up, startled, and Jeyne holds up her hands, her voice almost a whisper as she says, "Please let me explain."

"I don't think - "

"I've never cheated on Robb before. I've never cheated on _anyone_ before. That's not who I am."

Setting her Kindle aside, Sansa cannot stop herself from retorting, "Then why did we fuck in Margaery's guest room?"

Jeyne looks so mortified, Sansa almost apologizes. "Margaery and I went to boarding school together. She invited me to the party, and I was mad at Robb because he blew me off to do something with Theon. I liked you, I liked talking with you, and you're - " Her blush somehow deepens. "You know you're gorgeous, right? I've never had - No one like you has ever been interested in me."

"So I was your bicurious experiment before you ride off into the sunset with my brother?"

"I never thought I'd see you again. Honestly I don't - " Jeyne moves closer, sitting at the foot of the bed with a sigh. "I never really thought about being with a woman before you and I...And ever since that night, all I can think about is what we did and if I want to do it again and what that means for me and Robb and - "

Sansa holds up a hand. "I'm not going to tell him, if that's what you're worried about, Jeyne. It can stay our dirty, little secret."

"That's not - I don't want you to think I think what we did was something shameful. I mean, I do because I cheated but not because of _you_. You were...I didn't even know I could feel the things you made me feel."

Sansa is certain she could've gone her whole life without knowing how she and Robb stack up against each other in bed. "Well...glad you had a good time, I guess? I don't really know what you want me to say here, Jeyne. You're Robb's girlfriend. I love my brother. I would really rather my parents not find out that I fuck random girls at house parties on Christmas morning. So why don't we agree that what happened between us never happened, and you can just go back to being Robb's girl?"

Jeyne lifts her head to look at Sansa, her brown eyes swollen with emotion. "Because now when I'm with Robb, I'm thinking about you."


	8. Silent (Sansa/Cersei)

The high-pitched moan escapes Sansa's mouth before she can catch it, the pleasure coursing through her body too much to be contained. Instantly the woman thrusting into her freezes, dropping down onto her palms to hiss into Sansa's ear, "Do you want me to stop?"

Sansa frantically shakes her head.

Cersei nips her ear, the gesture more painful than playful. "Then be a good girl and keep your mouth shut."

Good girls don't let their boyfriend's mothers fuck them with strap-ons during a family vacation. If she had the presence of mind to use any actual logic right then, Sansa would've pointed that out. Instead she obediently presses her lips together, braces her hands back against the headboard, and moves her hips to meet Cersei's deep thrusts.

This is the fifth time this has happened. The first time, Cersei fingered her under the dining room table after she walked in on Joffrey grabbing her arm to yell at her about embarrassing him by wearing a dress he thought was too short. Sansa thought she was having some sort of out of body hallucination that first night, but no, Joff's mom made her come before dessert was served, wiped her hand on the cloth napkin in her lap, and then smiled blandly at Sansa when they said good night.

The second time, Cersei invited her to lunch. What started with finger sandwiches ended up Cersei bending her over the little bistro table on the Baratheon's back patio and eating her out from behind in a display both mind blowing in its pleasure and horrifying to Sansa's modest nature. After she came twice - a new experience - Cersei rose, wiped her mouth with her napkin, and said, "You can't make that much noise next time."

Sansa wasn't sure what the hell was happening, but she knew there shouldn't be a next time. But there was because Cersei has some sort of power over her that she couldn't understand and so when Cersei called the next time, the third time happened.

The third time was in an expensive boutique hotel downtown. Sansa had barely made it through the door of the room when Cersei informed her, "It's time you learn to reciprocate." By the time Sansa left that evening, her jaw was completely numb and she was certain she'd never get the taste of Cersei Lannister out of her mouth. Not that she wanted to, which was a whole new problem entirely.

The fourth time happened at her parents' house. While their fathers reminisced and her mother played the perfect hostess, Cersei asked Sansa if she could show her where the guest bath was. Cersei shoved her inside the small half-bath and told her she better work fast so no one got suspicious. Sansa had never even made out with someone in her house before and yet she obediently fucked Cersei with her fingers hard and fast the way she liked until the older woman silently shook with pleasure and then just left her alone in the bathroom.

Sansa didn't even know if she liked Cersei as a person. She didn't understand why this was happening and why she kept letting it happen. 

But tonight, as she slept in her bedroom in the Baratheon's massive summer house, she didn't raise any objections when Cersei slipped inside, a silk robe wrapped around her body. Sansa had barely blinked away the sleep from her eyes when Cersei dropped her robe to reveal a harness and a rubber cock larger than Joff's dangling between her toned legs.

"I'm going to fuck you better than my son ever has," Cersei said as she jerked down Sansa's sleep shorts and underwear in one movement, "and you're going to keep your fucking mouth shut."

And now here they are, Cersei moving Sansa's legs like she is a Barbie doll, Sansa's hands alternating between bracing herself against the headboard, slapping over her mouth, and clawing the sheets. If there's one thing Sansa can think in her sex-addled state, it's that Cersei was right: she _is_ fucking her better than Joffrey ever has.

"I fucking love your cunt," Cersei hisses, her thumb rolling over Sansa's swollen clit. "I swear to God, if I could I'd keep you chained to this fucking bed for me to fuck whenever I want."

Sansa wants to moan, scream, say something, but she bites her lower lip hard to stay quiet like Cersei wants. She must like that Sansa's listening because a feline smile spreads across her face and she begins to work her clit harder and faster, building the pleasure at an almost brutal pace. Sansa comes hard, her legs shaking, and she twists her face to catch the corner of the pillow between her teeth because there is no way to keep completely silent when she thinks she's going to die from the strength of her orgasm. 

As she starts to come back to herself, Cersei pulls out, fumbling with the harness and tossing it aside. She crawls up Sansa's body, throwing one leg over Sansa's face and though Sansa will be shocked in the morning, she eats Cersei out the way she taught her, hands clutching Cersei's thighs tight as she licks and sucks. It doesn't take much for Cersei to come, already primed to do so, and when she tumbles to lay beside Sansa, Sansa wonders if this is how sex is actually supposed to be.

After a few minutes, Cersei rises, picking up her robe from the floor and wrapping it around her body. Sansa watches, and she's surprised when Cersei comes back to the edge of the bed, catches Sansa's chin, and presses a long, sloppy kiss to her mouth. They've never kissed before and Sansa never asked for it.

"Tomorrow you wear the cock," Cersei tells her, kissing her again and tweaking one of Sansa's nipples. A dim jolt of pleasure streaks through Sansa's exhausted body. "I want to ride you."

It isn't until Cersei is gone that Sansa realizes she left the harness and dildo on the bed. Sansa carries it into the adjoining bath, cleans it, and then hides it in the cabinet under the sink behind the stack of clean towels. She has no idea what the hell she is doing with Joff's mom, but she also knows tomorrow night she is going to do exactly what Cersei wants her to do and won't say a word about it.


	9. Lavender (Ashara/Lyanna)

She'd heard it said that Ashara Dayne, the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, has violet eyes, but they remind Lyanna of the lavender fields she's seen in the Riverlands on their way to Harrenhal. The longer Lyanna holds the older woman's gaze, the more she understands why every man at the tourney, including both of her older brothers, are captivated by her.

Robert, already deep in his cups, sees who she is looking at and slurs into her ear, "You are far lovelier than her."

Lyanna barely manages not to wince and shove him away, the heat and sourness of his breath enough to make her want to run him through with her fork. "You flatter me, my lord."

By the time the dancing starts, Robert is so drunk, he falls facedown into his plate. Ned and Brandon both wince before carrying him from the hall, and Lyanna wonders if it is too late to become a septa. She doesn't know a damned thing about the Seven, but she'll devote herself with a piety never before seen in Westeros if it means she won't be shackled to Robert Baratheon for the rest of her life.

"It would seem your betrothed has fallen ill."

Lyanna looks up to find Ashara Dayne smiling down at her, her black hair shining in the candlelight. For a moment Lyanna forgets how to breathe, let alone speak, before managing, "An illness he's quite used to, I'm sure."

"I'm sure another young man would be happy to partner you for the festivities."

"I don't care much for dancing."

"Well you can hardly sit here alone." Urging Lyanna to her feet, Ashara links her arm through Lyanna's and declares, "We'll find something you _do_ enjoy."

It happens so fast, Lyanna isn't even certain what's happening until her back is pressed against a stone wall, Ashara pressed against her front. They are hidden by a tapestry, and Lyanna thinks she _should_ care more about the potential for being caught kissing the queen's lady but with Ashara's tongue in her mouth and her hands gripping her waist, Lyanna cannot manage it.

"I think I could keep you," Ashara murmurs against her mouth, and Lyanna wants to tell her how much she wants to be kept, how she wishes for so many things but most of all she wishes she could choose who she loves. Instead she stretches up on her toes, wanting to be as close to Ashara as possible.

She has her hand beneath Ashara's gown, tucked between her thighs touching her the way Ashara showed her, when Lyanna hears Brandon calling, "Lya?" For a moment she freezes, panicked her brother will find her like this, but then Ashara turns her face back towards her, those lavender eyes aflame.

"I'm right here, sweetling," she says, and Lyanna decides Brandon can wait. 

If this is to be the last chance she gets at real and true freedom, Lyanna is going to enjoy it to the fullest.


	10. Waiting (Val/Sansa)

Being stranded at the airport in a strange city with no end in sight to the snowstorm that's grounded the planes has started to make Sansa a little crazy. She's eaten dinner at a chain restaurant, browsed every overpriced store, bought a neck pillow to try to take a nap that was a total flop, read multiple magazines, and made it halfway through what is quite possibly the worst paperback she's ever read before admitting defeat. And still there is no departing time for her flight home.

"You look like you could use this."

Sansa turns towards the voice to find a blonde woman in a white sweater, a Starbucks cup extended to Sansa. She accepts the cup because she doesn't want to be rude but says, "I'm not really sure caffeine is going to help me relax."

The blonde sinks into the chair beside Sansa, a smirk on her glossy lips. "Well it's pretty liberally spiked with Bailey's that I paid entirely too much for so it should at least give you a little bit of a warm feeling."

Sansa laughs, taking a sip to confirm that her coffee is most definitely Irish. "Thank you. I'm Sansa."

"Val. What's in Boston, assuming we ever actually get there?"

"My brother Robb is getting married. They wanted me to fly in two days ago, but I had finals so now I'm stuck in airport purgatory."

"You're in college?"

"Law school, second year. What about you? What's in Boston?"

"I'm negotiating a deal. A company there wants to acquire my family's company so I'm working out the details. It's all very official and painfully boring." She takes a sip of her own spiked coffee, and Sansa notices she leaves a perfect lip print on the lid. "So now plus one for the wedding?"

She shakes her head. "I'm so busy with school, there isn't a lot of time for dating. Plus as much as I love my family, they're still getting used to the idea that I'm..."

"That you're...what, a serial killer? Puppy murderer? Fuck, you're not a Republican, are you?"

Sansa laughs despite herself. "I'm a lesbian. I only came out a few months ago, so it's still weird saying it out loud. My parents aren't homophobes are anything. It's more like they're trying _so hard_ to be supportive that it's now swung back around to being - "

"Super creepy and invasive? Yeah, that's how mine were too."

"Oh, you're - I mean, you - "

"Wow, you really are new to the lesbian game if you didn't realize I am clearly trying to pick you up." Val smiles, the amusement in her eyes as evident as the kindness there. "I've had three different men try to hit on me so far, so if I'm being the weird stranger at the airport, you can tell me now and I'll leave you alone."

Blushing with pleasure from Val's attention, Sansa takes another sip of her coffee. "You're not a weird stranger."

"Good." Getting to her feet, she says, "I heard they're not going to start clearing flights until tomorrow morning. I'm going to get a room at one of the hotels. Would you like to join me?"

Sansa has kissed exactly two women. She has never had a one-night stand. And yet she feels herself nodding and getting to her feet, slinging her backpack over her shoulder. "I'd like that."


	11. Rest Day (Sansa/Margaery)

In a family as devout as Sansa's, Sundays are reserved for two things: God and family. It is why they are not permitted to call on friends, why her little brothers aren't allowed to chase the dogs through the yard, and why her usually hardworking parents actually sit and relax. It is the way in their Order, and Sansa understood this when she made the choice to return to the Amish after rumspringa and get baptized in the church.

None of this explains why she lied to her parents, stating she wanted to check on Lady's litter of pups in the far barn, and instead has found herself with her skirts above her waist and her English girlfriend performing a sexual act she is fairly certain the Elders do not even allow married couples to practice.

"So many fucking layers," Margaery laughs as Sansa's skirts get tangled in her questing hands, and Sansa shivers at her hot breath against her wet, sensitive flesh.

"It's a sin to curse," Sansa manages before letting out a stream of vile words in Pennsylvania Dutch that her father doesn't even know she's heard, let alone spoke, in her life.

Margaery presses an open mouthed kiss to Sansa's inner thigh before gliding her tongue up the center of her again, wringing another moan from the younger girl. "It's a sin to cover these legs in ninety yards of fabric." 

It is her favorite dress, one her mother let her make from a bolt of sky blue fabric they'd received from a family grateful for her father's help with their farm. Their Order doesn't ban colors the way some others do, but they are frowned upon, especially among unmarried women. When she'd come downstairs this morning wearing it, her father frowned but didn't make her change, and Sansa wishes she could say she wore it to honor the Lord. But while Sansa has become a prolific liar since returning home, she does not lie to herself and the truth is, she'd worn this dress because Margaery told her once she loved the way Sansa looked in blue.

Sansa sinks her teeth into the flesh of her palm to muffle her cries as her back arches hard as her orgasm hits. Margaery doesn't lift her mouth until Sansa pushes halfheartedly at her forehead, and her lover climbs up her body, kissing her mouth as deeply as she'd kissed her cunt.

Cunt. That was a word Margaery had taught her their first night together, whispered hot against her ear at that party her now-English cousin Jon brought her to so she could meet "real" English people. Sansa's grown to love the word.

"Come back to Philly with me," Margaery whispers against her mouth as Sansa's fingers pluck at the button of her jean shorts. God, Sansa misses wearing shorts, especially on humid summer days like today.

"You know I can't."

"I know you _won't_." Margaery catches Sansa's wrist, stilling her hand. "They'll make you marry a man. They'll never let you be who you are."

Her heart breaking as it has a thousand times since returning to the farm three months earlier, Sansa murmurs, "They're my family."

"It's 2019, Sansa. _We_ can be a family. _We_ can get married. _We_ can have children." Kissing the fullness of Sansa's lower lip, she adds, "But we can't do it here and you know it."

It's the day of rest. Sansa does not want to think about this now. So she returns Margaery's kiss, slips her hand into Margaery's skimpy underwear, and wishes the world was different.


	12. Balloons (Elia/Lyanna)

Birthdays had never been a big thing in Lyanna's family growing up and they'd been huge productions in Rhaegar's family, so it is Elia who suggests they strike a balance for Jon's first birthday. 

"He won't even remember it," Elia gently points out in her patient way when Rhaegar starts suggesting ponies and bounce houses and other expensive ideas that a child who can barely stand on his own will be able to enjoy. "Why don't we have a party for family and friends in the backyard, a little barbecue?"

There are times Lyanna wonders why she agreed to this whole polygamy thing, but she has to admit she would've murdered their husband months ago if it wasn't for Elia's skillful intervention.

While Rhaegar and his friends put up tents in the backyard and set up the tables beneath them, the children playing in the paddling pool, Lyanna inflates balloons with helium tanks before passing them to Elia, whose clever fingers easily tie them and attaches curling gold ribbon to them.

"I still don't understand how a barbecue turned into tents, caterers, and our balloon assembly line," Lyanna complains as she hands another balloon to her sister wife.

"You know Rhaegar. He likes attention." Elia releases the ribbon in her hand, watching at the balloon gently floats up to the ceiling, the ribbons just out of reach of any kids who come into the house. "You should've seen what he did for Rhaenys's first birthday. There were fireworks."

Lyanna laughs, shaking her head. "I'll never understand how you ended up together."

Elia's smile is anything but amused. "I don't think either of our parents were as worried about compatibility as they were grandchildren." She reaches over, touching the bump beneath Lyanna's t-shirt. "You know how excited Aerys and Rhaella will be about this one."

Lyanna rolls her eyes. "Can't get pregnant when nursing, my ass."

They work in silence for a few minutes when Lyanna finally ventures, "Are we going to talk about it?"

"About what?"

"You know what."

Elia looks up from tying the balloon, and while her face is calm, the shaking of her hands tells Lyanna how she feels. "I thought we agreed...not to talk about it."

"We did but..." Lyanna shrugs, suddenly feeling stupid and emotional and _young_. "Never mind."

Elia glances out the window and, after confirming the children are still playing and Rhaegar is still erecting tents, she moves to sit beside Lyanna, taking her hand. Lyanna looks at her, tears starting to well in her grey eyes, and Elia cups the side of Lyanna's face, her thumb brushing away a tear. "Oh, don't cry, darling. I can't bear it."

"It's just these stupid hormones," Lyanna lies.

"What happened between us - what we did together - you know what would happen if anyone found out. We made vows to Rhaegar. We agreed to this life."

"I know, but I didn't know..." Looking at their tangled fingers, Lyanna confesses, "I don't know if I can just look at you as a sister after what we did. Especially when all I can think about is Rhaegar going out of town so we can do it again."

Elia's eyes burn hot as she swallows hard. Unable to stop herself, she brushes a soft kiss against Lyanna's mouth and whispers, "Let's get through today first, Lya, and then we'll talk, I promise."


	13. The Sun (Arianne/Val)

Val is seldom impressed by kneelers. In her experience, most of them are not that different from the Free Folk except for their insistence on clinging to their kings and queens, and while she has found a few exceptions at Winterfell, they are mostly just ordinary men and women.

Jon invites her to come with him to the South, to some place called Dorne that is so far away, they must spend a great deal of time on a ship. Val wants to tell him she has zero interest in leaving the North and even less in playing at being a kneeler, but Lady Arya literally bounces on her toes with excitement at the prospect of going to Dorne and while Val doesn't let many people's opinions sway her, she's learned that her interests and Arya's interests often intersect.

Arya tells her the tale of Nymeria and her ships, of how in Dorne the women have as many rights as the men, how daughters can inherit before sons. Val listens, amused at the girl's excitement, and the closer they get to Dorne, the more Val begins to wonder if this was the wrong choice. It is so gods damned _hot_ , sweat pooling in places Val didn't even realize could sweat, and it is as if the sun is different here: brighter, stronger, clearer. The hottest summer day in the North cannot compare to this sweltering heat, and even in her thinnest gown, Val is miserable.

By the time they disembark from the ship, Val has decided she hates ships and the South and Dorne especially but Jon Snow most of all for bringing her to this terrible place.

And then she sees _her_.

She stands shoulder-to-shoulder with a handful of beautiful women armed with weapons, but she herself is unarmed. Her black hair is braided in a crown around her head, and the outfit she wears is made of nearly sheer panels of silk, the long skirt made with a slit to reveal her toned legs and a top that reveals the flatness of her tummy. She is the most beautiful woman Val has ever seen in her entire life, and when she smiles, Val wonders how it is that any man or woman meets her and does not try to steal her.

While Jon does his kingly work at the castle called Sunspear, the princess of Dorne invites Val and Arya to travel to the Water Gardens. Arya, who wants to spend more time with the Sand Snakes, agrees easily, and Val goes with her because anything sounds more interesting than sitting in a sweltering castle while Jon meets with the princess's dour-faced father. As Val discovers, the Water Gardens are pools, and though she hasn't gone swimming since she was a child, Val is eager to cool herself in the water.

The children in the pools bathe nude, so Val thinks nothing of undressing and slipping into the water. She emerges from beneath the water, pushing her blonde curls away from her face, to find Arianne standing there, an amused smile on her face.

"Most of the ladies wear a shift or smallclothes when they swim during the day."

"I don't wear smallclothes."

A dark eyebrow arches. "Is that so?" Arianne's brown eyes take her in, and Val cannot help but preen a little, arching her back a bit so that her tits ride high on her chest, drops of water rolling off of her hardened nipples. "I suppose it is a shame to cover up such beauty."

Val moves a bit closer to the edge of the pool and with damp fingers, tugs at the hem of Arianne's skirt. "A shame indeed."

Arianne doesn't look away from her as she undresses, letting her silks fall in a careless pile before she slips naked into the pools. Her golden skin is perfect, not a blemish to be found, and Val wants to explore ever inch of it with her mouth. She hasn't been with a woman since Lady Sansa left to hear grievances across the North, and Val has never enjoyed an empty bed. If she is going to remain in Dorne, Arianne will be a welcome dalliance. Of course, Jon cannot find out. He gets so upset when she takes ladies to bed, particularly if they already have a lord husband. Mayhaps she should've asked if Arianne was married before they left...

"I must confess, I never imagined a wildling to look like you," Arianne says, gliding through the water with the ease of a mermaid. "I pictured you to be far fiercer."

"Oh, I am fierce, m'lady."

"As am I. All Dornish women are." Standing near enough to Val that she can feel the heat from her body, she asks, "Do you know much of Dornish women?"

"I didn't know Dorne existed at all until Jon said he was coming here," Val answers honestly, "but I have enjoyed what I've seen so far."

Arianne smiles again, this time the expression becoming almost predatory. "We are not like other ladies in the kingdoms. We enjoy far more... _freedoms_ than others."

"What types of freedom do you enjoy most?" Val challenges, one of her hands beneath the water's surface tracing the generous curve of Arianne's hip.

"The types that involve sitting on your beautiful face." Arianne catches Val's hand, dragging it from her hip to her cunt. "I don't really care for being coy."

Rubbing the pads of two fingers against Arianne's clit, Val smirks. "Neither do I."

Arianna glances towards the children splashing in a nearby pool and shivers in pleasure as Val's touch becomes more aggressive. "I think we should retire to my rooms."

"If we do, I will not let you leave for days."

Arianne's eyes burn as hot as the sun. "Good."


	14. White (Arya/Myrcella)

It's a beautiful gown: pure white, strapless with a beaded bodice that emphasizes the tiny span of her waist, and a princess-like ballgown. When she'd tried it on in the shop, Myrcella knew right away it was The One, knew it even before Trystane's generally absentee mother actually teared up and declared it perfect. Even her own mother had smiled at the sight of her, tucking the veil into her curls and pressing a kiss to her cheek. She'd undergone two different fittings to make sure it fit like a glove, and Myrcella knows that one day when she looks at her wedding pictures, she won't regret this gown.

What she _will_ regret is not calling the whole thing off.

Her wedding is in twelve hours. In five hours she needs to be up for her hair and makeup appointment. Her bridesmaids will be picking her up with coffee in hand, and they'll expect her to be wearing the zip-up hoodie one of Trystane's cousins bought her that says _Future Mrs. Martell_ across the back. She will smile and listen to their teasing and answer inane questions asked by the stylists about her colors and flowers and honeymoon destination, and when she is finished, she'll put on that gown hanging on the bathroom door, walk down the aisle towards her boyfriend of five years, and promise to love him for the rest of her life. That is the plan.

Arya was _not_ part of the plan. Of course, Arya being Arya, she never gave a fuck about plans, which is probably why Myrcella is going to get married in twelve hours and Arya showed up at her hotel room door and drawled, "Guess my invite got lost in the mail."

Myrcella thought she was going to scream, curse, trash the room, make a scene of mammoth proportions. She hadn't expected _this_.

"Do you get this wet for him?" Arya asks as she pushes the strap-on slowly inside Myrcella, the slide just slow enough to make Myrcella whine with impatience. Myrcella finally drags her eyes away from her wedding gown and instead takes in the rippling of Arya's abs. Sometimes Myrcella thinks Arya is only made of sarcasm and sinew. She's the only woman Myrcella's ever met with the deep V cut of muscles more commonly found on male Marvel stars.

"Don't talk - " Myrcella inhales sharply through her nose as Arya bottoms out inside her, the sharpness of her hipbones pressing against Myrcella's softness. "Please don't talk about him now."

"Because you're cheating on him? Do you feel bad about it?" Arya leans over her, her lips just out of reach. "Or is it because you _don't_ feel bad about it?"

Myrcella digs her new acrylic nails into Arya's back. "This is the last time, you know. You want to waste it talking about him?"

Arya smirks, moving back on her knees and beginning the slow push and pull of her hips. "Do you know how many last times we've had, Cella?"

She closes her eyes tight to block out the white gown taunting her from the bathroom door.


	15. Umbrellas (Brienne/Margaery)

It's a truly miserable day for a wedding, and Margaery wishes she was anywhere else. She'd promised Loras she'd be his date for this wedding because Renly was still deeply in the closet with his family, but since arriving at the church, her brother has spent all of his time whispering to his secret boyfriend while Margaery wonders why Catholics insists on making pews so damned uncomfortable.

Having started people watching to pass the time until the ceremony starts, Margaery sees the umbrella first. It is plain black and utterly unremarkable, but the angle at which it's being held blocks the identity of the holder. Jaime Lannister, yet another uncle of the bride, is standing beside the person, who is as tall as he is, and he is struggling to close his own umbrella one-handed. After a moment's struggle, the other person's umbrella drops as they move to help Jaime, and Margaery is pleasantly surprised to see the stranger in question is female.

She is the tallest woman Margaery has ever seen, her shoulders broad. Her blonde hair is short and slicked back against her head, drawing attention to the startling blue of her eyes. Margaery wouldn't say her face is particularly beautiful and certainly not delicate, but the handsomeness of her appeals to Margaery. She's wearing a tailored suit, complete with tie, and it fits the stranger so beautifully Margaery could weep. Of course, she also wants to take it off of the woman, which is why she interrupts Loras and Renly's whispering to ask if they know who it is.

"That's Brienne. She's some kind of helper for Jaime," Loras answers.

"I don't think she's your type, Marg," Renly chimes in.

Margaery barely manages not to scoff. She's yet to meet a woman who _isn't_ her type.

The reception is held in the ballroom of one of the city's grand hotels, and Margaery sidles up to the stranger at the open bar. Now that she's closer to the stranger, Margaery can make out a dappling of freckles across the bridge of her nose. They're so fucking cute, she wants to kiss them.

"Can I buy you a drink?" 

Brienne looks down at her, startled. Margaery wonders if she's more surprised by the question or if she hadn't noticed her standing there. "It's an open bar."

"Then can I order you a drink?"

Her cheeks start to flush, something like nervousness creeping into those brilliant blue eyes. "Thank you, but I don't - " She clears her throat. "Are you teasing me?"

"No, I'm hitting on you. And I must be doing a pretty terrible job if you didn't even realize it." Margaery grins. "I'm Margaery Tyrell."

"Brienne Tarth." Shuffling forward as the line moves, Margaery watches her throat work to swallow several times before she manages, "I'm not - I appreciate your interest, but I'm interested in men."

Unbothered, Margaery smiles. "I see. Have you ever been with a woman?" Seeing Brienne's go wide at the question, she continues, "Because in my experience, everyone's interested in men until they're not. And how will you ever know if you don't try? I'm an excellent woman to try it with."

Brienne's face is now so red, it rivals Margaery's dress in color. "I'm not really certain I'm the sort of person who tries things like that."

"Oh, everyone should be the sort of person who experiments sexually with a stranger at a wedding at least once." Opening her small clutch, Margaery removes one of her room keys, pressing it into Brienne's large hand. "I'm in Room 1834. If you decide the sort of person you want to be, come find me."

It's a gamble. It always is hitting on straight girls, particularly ones that are as straight laced as Brienne Tarth apparently is, but Margaery hopes it's a gamble that pays off.

Four hours later when there's a tentative knock at her room door, Margaery opens it to reveal a still flushed face Brienne, umbrella clutched tightly in her right hand.

Leaning against the doorframe, she drawls, "I gave you the key so you wouldn't have to knock."

"I didn't want to be rude."

Margaery reaches out, tugging the tie from beneath her suit coat and giving it a little jerk that makes Brienne stutter step towards her. "You are so fucking cute, I am going to keep you in this room for the next week."

Finally loosening her hold on the umbrella, Brienne sets it beside the door on a table while continuing to allow Margaery to lead her through the suite. "I have no idea what I'm doing. I might be terrible at this."

Margaery stops, dropping her hold on Brienne's tie and unbuttoning her suit coat. When she reaches Brienne's leather belt, Margaery looks up at her and sees the desire in Brienne's blue eyes. "Well, I'm very, _very_ good at this, so don't worry."

"I don't think that's possible."

Margaery gives Brienne's shoulders a gentle push, and the larger woman obediently drops into the armchair behind her. Going to her knees in front of the chair, Margaery undoes Brienne's belt and releases the button of the pants. "Trust me."

Brienne swallows hard, her eyes locking with Margaery's. "Okay."


	16. Blue (Sansa/Mya)

"It's blue."

Mya smirks, swiveling her hips in a move straight out of _Magic Mike_ , making the translucent blue cock attached to the harness she wears bob around comically. "You gave me very specific dimensions, remember? This one fits it."

Sansa can't help but blush as she remembers their strap-on bargaining session. She'd refused to go into the sex toy shop, so she'd given Mya a range of measurements to keep in mind while shopping. "Right but...it's blue."

"Like my eyes," Mya says with a giggle, and Sansa can't help but confirm that yes, Mya's new cock is the exact same shade as the eyes that first captivated Sansa when she'd met Mya at the stables. "The realistic ones were creepy. I mean, unless you have some kind of testicle fetish."

Though still embarrassed at the sight of the rubber dick bouncing with every movement Mya makes, Sansa can't help but laugh. "Yeah, I'm a real ball queen."

Mya laughs as she climbs onto the bed, brushing a lock of dark hair off of her forehead. Sansa parts her legs to make space for her, and Mya kneels there, running her fingers up and down the soft skin of Sansa's thighs. "Well then, next time I'll buy one with a big ole set of balls. I mean, huge. Elephantitus of the nuts. They'll be so big, they could have their own _TLC_ special about them."

Now laughing so hard, she's having trouble catching her breath, Sansa begs, "Stop," before catching the bottom of the thin, white undershirt Mya still wears and tugging her down for a kiss. As Mya rests her forehead against Sansa's, Sansa murmurs, "You're insane, you know that?"

"Yeah but you love me anyway." 

Mya kisses her again, deeper this time, and Sansa melts into it, cupping Mya's face between her palms, pulling her legs up to frame Mya's narrow hips. She feels the brush of the blue cock against her, and Sansa feels herself blush even as she wiggles against it, humming in pleasure as Mya pinches one of her nipples.

"You know I'm making you fuck me with this later, right?" Mya asks as she slides down Sansa's body, pressing kisses and nipping at her skin as she goes. 

"I don't know how," Sansa manages to get out before gasping as Mya drags her tongue up her cunt in one long, hard lick. 

"It's pretty simple. I think you'll be okay." Parting Sansa with her fingers, she rolls her tongue over Sansa's clit, the suddenness of the motion making Sansa cry out. Mya usually is a tease, tormenting her forever before finally giving Sansa what she wants, and this is all so different in the very best way. "Now be a good girl and show me how much you want my cock."

"You're the worst," Sansa immediately responds with a breathless laugh before biting out, " _Fuck_!" as Mya sucks hard on her clit before pulling back, her mouth making a literally _pop!_ as she does so.

"I may be the worst," Mya says, pushing Sansa's thighs apart, lining the strap-on up against her wet opening, "but you're going to come on my big, blue dick."

Sansa's laugh mingles with her moan as Mya slides slowly inside her, the stretch of it making Sansa arch up into her girlfriend. As she reaches for Mya, wrapping her arms around her slim body, Sansa realizes she's never laughed with anyone as much as she laughs with Mya. She hadn't even thought sex _could_ be funny. But as Mya begins to move inside her, Sansa realizes there are so many things she hadn't known before Mya, and she can't wait to see what else is in store for them.


	17. Damned (Tyene/Myrcella)

She wants to be good. It's all Myrcella has ever wanted, to be the sort of person her parents never managed to be. All of her parents, not just the ones on her birth certificate. Myrcella knows where she came from, knows what she saw transpiring between her mother and uncle that summer at her grandfather's beach house. She also knows she doesn't seem to have a drop of Robert Baratheon's blood in her, just like Joffrey and Tommen don't, and while science was never Myrcella's best subject in school, even she knows the odds of having three children without a single similarity to their father are microscopic. No, Myrcella has known for far too long that she was created from sin, born of two people who spat in the face of the God, and it was why she chose to enter the convent, why she decided to devote herself to the Lord and being of assistance to those in need.

And yet here she is, sinning once again, unable to say no to her baser urges and keep the promises she's made.

"We shouldn't," she whispers lamely against Tyene's lips without actually pulling away, letting the older girl lay her back in the narrow bed. "Maybe this time we should stop..."

"Stop?" Tyene echoes, slipping a hand beneath Myrcella's sleeping shirt, a smile playing at her lips. "Why would we do something so stupid?"

"We're not supposed to - " Myrcella inhales deeply through her nose as Tyene tweaks her nipple, her mouth sucking a mark on Myrcella's collarbone that she'll have to keep hidden from the Sisters. "It's a sin."

Pushing up Myrcella's shirt, Tyene drags her teeth across the thin skin of Myrcella's ribs before dragging her tongue around the underside of her right breast. "It seems like all the best things are, hmm?"

"Why do you want to be a nun if you don't want to follow any of the rules?"

Tyene rolls her eyes, stripping Myrcella of her shirt, leaving her in virginal cotton panties. Hooking her thumbs into the sides of Myrcella's underwear, she tugs them down her legs with one smooth motion. "You think all those boys in the seminary are just reading their Bibles, saying their rosaries?"

"What does that - "

Tyene pushes apart Myrcella's thighs, stretching out across her body. They both moan as Tyene grinds her cunt against Myrcella's, and all of Myrcella's arguments seem to fly out of her brain at the pleasure. As they move together, Myrcella pulling up her knees and spreading her legs to increase the friction, she thinks maybe Tyene has a point. Why _are_ all the good things sinful? Would this be less sinful if she was doing it with a boy instead of Tyene? And if it would be, why had God made her so damned attracted to Tyene and not at all to any boys?

Myrcella throws her head back as her orgasm starts, eyes clenched tight as pleasure explodes through every inch of her body. It's probably a sacrilege to think it, but Myrcella wonders if this is as close to a miracle as she'll ever get.


	18. Safe (Brienne/Sansa)

Brienne isn't completely surprised when Sansa appears in the adjoining doorway between their rooms, particularly after the afternoon they've had. Her fair skin is still painfully washed of color, and Brienne recognizes the haunted look in the smaller woman's eyes. It reminds Brienne of the men she served with after they saw action for the first time; it was the look of a person who realized just how fragile life truly is.

"Ma'am," Brienne says as Sansa approaches, uncertain if she is asking if her principal is okay or if she'd like Brienne to do something for her, but it doesn't seem to matter because Secretary Stark doesn't respond anyway. Instead she sets her hands on Brienne's chest, the crisp white shirt Brienne wears still stained with the driver's blood, and one of her manicured nails finds the hole left from one of the bullets.

"You could have died today."

It is not the first time Brienne has almost died and so long as she's working as a bodyguard, it won't be the last. "Yes."

"You would have died protecting me."

"That's my job, ma'am."

"You don't even know me, not really. I don't even think you like me very much. But you took a bullet for me today."

"The vest took the bullet, ma'am. How I feel doesn't affect my job, but I like you fine."

Sansa nods and then does the first truly surprising thing she's done since Brienne joined her protection detail: she begins to undo the buttons of her shirt. Brienne considers catching her hands, but instead she remains at near attention while her boss tugs the tails of the shirt from her waistband and removes the shirt from her body entirely.

After the paramedic cleared her at the scene, Brienne had put her vest back on because it was protocol. As demonstrated today, it saved her life. But right now Sansa Stark is running her fingers over the kevlar, tugging at the straps with no understanding of how it works. Brienne finally moves, helping her to unfasten it, and then the vest joins her ruined shirt on the floor.

She's never really needed to wear a bra, flat chested as she is, and Brienne blushes as her nipples push against the white undershirt she wears instead. Sansa pushes at the undershirt too, shoving it up her torso, and though Brienne is embarrassed, she helps her remove it. Now she is standing in the center of her hotel room wearing only a pair of dress pants, and the Secretary of State is examining the wicked bruise on her breast left from the bullet.

"Does it hurt?"

"Yes." 

Her fingers are warm as she traces the edges of the bruise, making gooseflesh break out across Brienne's body. "It would've struck your heart."

"But it didn't."

Brienne gasps as Sansa's lips brush over the bruise, pain and pleasure warring for top billing in her confused body. She is still buzzing with adrenaline, and Brienne isn't naive enough to think Sansa Stark truly wants her. How many stories has she heard from others in her profession about principals who have a close call and deal with it by fucking their bodyguards blind? Brienne has never mixed business with pleasure, and she isn't about to start now.

"Ma'am," Brienne tries, her hands catching Sansa's shoulders as the younger woman's tongue curls around her nipple.

Sansa lifts her head, her blue eyes meeting Brienne's, and Brienne doesn't think she's ever wanted anyone as much as she wants this woman in this moment.

Still she says, "You don't owe me anything, ma'am."

"Don't worry, Captain Tarth. I don't tend to reward my subordinates with a good fuck." Standing on her toes, Sansa wraps her arms around Brienne's neck. "I want this because I want you. If I'm out of line, tell me, and I'll go back to my room. We won't speak of this again."

"It's against protocol..."

"Fuck protocol." Kissing the strong line of Brienne's jaw, she whispers, "We almost died today, Tarth. I think we've earned this."

The best possible outcome of this is getting fired, Brienne thinks as she catches the back of Sansa's thighs and lifts her, the younger woman wrapping her legs around Brienne's waist. But as she carries her boss to the bed, desire nearly overwhelming her, Brienne thinks getting fired might end up being the least of her problems because the way she feels about this woman is...

There are no words for this, and that scares Brienne far more than the bullet that hit her in the chest this afternoon.


	19. Vanilla (Elia/Ros)

"I bought you a present."

Elia stops pulling clothes out of the dryer, a sense of dread filling her stomach. She loves her younger brother, loves him more than anyone other than her children, but his gifts can be...unconventional. The last time he'd told her he got her a present, he'd given her a bag of psychadelic mushrooms, and Elia spent the rest of the night paranoid that the police were going to bust down her door and Rhaegar would get full custody of the children.

"I cleared it with Ellaria," Oberyn rushes to assure her, "and she agreed it was a good idea." She can hear the smile in his voice as he asks, "Don't you trust me, El?"

"With my life? Yes. With my clean criminal background? Not entirely."

Oberyn's laugh seems to make the phone vibrate. "Just be home tonight around 8:00. The kids are with Fuckface, right?"

Unable to keep from smiling, she says, "He's still their father, Oberyn."

"Which is why I don't call him by his real name when I'm with the kids." He sighs. "You sure you don't want me to kill him? Because I'm still willing."

While Elia still hasn't entirely forgive her ex-husband for leaving her for their barely legal babysitter and then getting her pregnant, she also doesn't have any lingering feelings for him either. "Quite positive. And I'll be here tonight. But I swear to god, Oberyn, if you sent me drugs again - "

"You have no faith in me!"

At precisely eight o'clock, her doorbell rings. Elia is expecting a delivery man. Instead she opens the door to reveal a tall redhead, a smart trench wrapped around her curvy body, an expensive handbag dangling from her arm. When she smiles, her teeth are brilliantly white and perfectly straight.

"Are you Elia Martell?"

"Yes, and you are?"

"I'm Ros. Oberyn sent me?"

"Oh, yes, come in." She moves out of the way to let the taller woman inside, taking in the precariously high heels she wears. "Oberyn didn't mention what precisely you do. Are you a masseuse?" 

Ros's smile widens. "Sometimes, if that's what's needed. Oberyn paid for more than that though."

"Like, what, a manicure or a facial?"

"No, darling, I'm...Oberyn hired me to show you a good time. He said I'm to tell you that I've been paid for the entire evening, I'm ready to fulfill any request, be it vanilla or otherwise, and I'm very discreet. Whatever happens between us will remain so. He said you'd be a bit skittish, so he had me sign a nondisclosure disagreement." Her smile falters a bit as she offers, "You'd be surprised how often I'm contracted after divorces. Sometimes it helps getting back in the saddle with someone like me."

Elia isn't certain whether she's horrified or aroused. She certainly knew Oberyn and Ellaria were not the most conventional of couples, but the idea of them shopping together to find her a hooker was...

A terrible thought occurs to her. "You and Oberyn haven't - "

"Oh, god no! He hires through our agency. A mutual friend recommended me to him." Setting her purse down, Ros shrugs out of her trench to reveal a form fitting black dress that hugs every generous curve. She drapes the coat over the back of a nearby chair as she approaches Elia, coming to stand in front of her with only a whisper of space between them. "Was your brother wrong? Am I not your type?"

"No, you - " Elia loses her words for a moment as Ros tucks a lock of Elia's hair behind her ear. "You're my type. It's just...been awhile. A long while. I may have actually forgotten how if we're being honest."

"How long were you married?" she asks, nimble fingers beginning to open the buttons of Elia's shirt.

"Longer than we should have been." She shivers as Ros cups her small breast over the thin cup of her bra. "I had a friend before I married that was...We were close."

"Was she the only woman you were ever... _close_ to?"

Elia squeezes her eyes shut as Ros's hand slips into the waistband of her pants, trying desperately not to think of that one drunken night with Ellaria. As Ros's fingers slip over her clit, she catches Ros's wrist and the taller woman looks at her, waiting.

"The whole night, you said?"

Ros grins. "However and wherever you want me."

The children aren't due back from Rhaegar's until Sunday.

Oberyn is a goddamn genius sometimes.


	20. Hate (Cersei/Margaery)

"You don't look very happy for such a joyous occasion, Mother Baratheon."

Cersei glares at Margaery Tyrell, barely resisting the urge to throw her glass of wine into the girl's smug face. "That is not my name and I will not answer to it."

Margaery smirks, motioning towards a waiter who brings her over a flute of champagne. In her fitted, lace wedding gown with its long sleeves and open back, her chestnut hair pinned up away from her face, she is beautiful today, and Cersei hates her for it. "Well, hopefully if things go well, soon we'll be calling you 'Grandma.' Tommen would like a big family."

She drains her wine glass, gleefully imagining breaking it and ramming the stem through her new daughter-in-law's neck. "How convenient for you."

"I'm a lucky girl. I always seem to land on my feet."

"By way of your back, it seems."

The smirk finally disappears from the younger woman's face, and her mouth purses unattractively. Cersei wonders what this little schemer is truly like beneath this thin veneer of propriety, if she's imagining hurting Cersei the same way Cersei wants to hurt her, if her inner monologue drips with venom. She hadn't liked Margaery Tyrell when she'd gotten her claws into Joffrey, but at least her eldest son - God rest his soul - was capable of spotting a snake in the grass. Sweet Tommen was not built for treachery and deceit, and this damned girl will run roughshod over him.

"Your back seems to have profitable for you." Leaning forward in false friendliness, Margaery asks, "Is it true what they say, that your father didn't leave you a penny and left it all to your brothers? That's got to hurt, particularly since you're a twin. And I've heard he absolutely hated your youngest brother, but he still got money and you didn't? Thank goodness you had your inheritance from Tommen's...father."

She is going to destroy this girl, Cersei decides, rage and humiliation burning in her body, muscles literally shaking from tension. Not even her love for Tommen will stop her from making sure his wife suffers. "It's your wedding reception, Margaery. I think you should enjoy the day while you can."

That fucking smirk is back on her lips again as she sets her empty champagne glass next to Cersei's plate. "What bothers you more, _Cersei_ , that I'm fucking your son or I'm not fucking you?"

Yes, she is going to tear this girl apart. Margaery Tyrell will never know what's hit her once Cersei is done with her. 

And if the little bitch's face flashes before her eyes as she gets herself off later that night, Cersei will just blame the wine.


	21. Wings (Sansa/Dany)

There aren't many things left in this terrible world that still scare Sansa, but Daenerys's dragons are on that list. She thinks of how people react to Ghost, how they used to warily eye all of their direwolves, and it seemed so silly to Sansa then how anyone could think of their pups as threats. But even though she's watched Ghost tear someone's throat open, Sansa's never felt a single second of fear when it comes to the direwolf, and it's obvious Daenerys feels the same way towards her dragons.

Sansa isn't certain where Drogon and Rhaegal go, but they always end up flying over Winterfell, coming for their mother. This afternoon as Sansa returns from praying in the godswood, she sees the large shadows being cast along the ground and looks up. Daenerys is perched upon Drogon's back, her white hair streaming behind her, the dragon's wings seeming to blot out the sun. Sansa freezes, watching as the creature carries the queen back to the earth, and it's the oddest thing, watching the small woman nuzzle the dragon as if it is nothing more threatening than a kitten.

When he takes flight again, disappearing into the sky, Sansa finally moves, surprised at how quickly her heart is beating.

"He scares you?"

Sansa looks at the Dragon Queen, uncertain at first if she is teasing. She hasn't known what to make of this woman since Jon brought her to their home, and too many years in Cersei's court has made her uneasy around queens. "Yes. That's the point, isn't it?"

"How do you mean?"

"When I was a child, my septa taught us about Aegon's Conquest. The dragons won the war for them. It's how the Targaryens kept their power. Once the dragons were gone, it made your house vulnerable. Now the dragons and the Targaryens have returned. It must be a powerful reminder to the smallfolk, seeing you and them."

Her lips twitch as if she wants to smile but knows she shouldn't. "Jon said you were smart. Tyrion as well. Somehow I think neither of them truly know just _how_ smart you actually are."

Drawing her cloak a little tighter around her body as a cold wind cuts through her, Sansa inclines her head. "Thank you, your grace."

"It can be a dangerous thing in this world, being a smart woman."

"It is a dangerous thing in this world to be any sort of woman."

This time Daenerys _does_ smile, but it is full of the same pain and bitterness Sansa recognizes from inside her own heart. "I fear that is a lesson we both learned the hard way, Lady Sansa. But we are here when those who hurt us are not."

"New men will try, I'm sure."

Daenerys arches an eyebrow. "You believe Jon would let that happen?"

"I believe good men die every day, cut down by worse men."

The queen takes a step towards Sansa, fingering the embroidery along the edge of Sansa's cloak. After a moment she looks into Sansa's eyes and states, "You're angry Jon took the knee."

"I understand why he did it."

"But you don't like it."

"It is not my place to - "

"I'm not chastising you, Sansa. I genuinely want to know why you're upset and if there can be friendship between us."

Sansa is quiet for a long beat before saying, "My brother Robb, he was King in the North. They called him the Young Wolf. If the Freys hadn't betrayed him, he might still be king. I have lived at court, your grace. I have seen more kings than Jon or even you have in your lifetimes. I know what a good leader is and what a good leader isn't. I don't believe you to be a bad leader, Daenerys. Your people love you dearly, which tells me you're not Cersei or Joffrey. But I believe the North should pick its king or queen, and they chose Jon. It wasn't his place to give his crown to you."

"Torrhen Stark knelt. Didn't your septa teach you that?"

"My father knelt too. He knelt to your father until he killed his father and brother. He knelt to Robert until he died. And to try to save us, he knelt to Joffrey, and he lost his head for it. After that, I had to kneel as well. I knelt before the throne while Joffrey had me beaten in front of court. I knelt before Cersei and let her tell me how stupid I was. I had to kneel before Ramsay Bolton and beg for my life. My knees are tired, your grace." Sansa sighs. "But I also have no strength left for war or betrayal, so if you wish us to be friends, friends we will be."

Daenerys studies her for a moment, and Sansa is surprised when the older woman cups her cheek, smiling with fondness. "You would have been a wonderful queen."

"Thank you, your grace."

"You may still be one." 

"I don't understand."

Daenerys steps closer, taking Sansa's hands in her own. Sansa doesn't understand how her hands can be so warm when it's this bloody cold. "You know if we win this war, Jon and I will wed."

"He told me."

"Did he tell you I'm barren? For us to have an heir, we'll need another, a third in our marriage like Aegon had with Rhaenys and Visenya." 

Certain she is misunderstanding, Sansa manages, "And you wish for me to help you find that woman?"

Daenerys stands on her toes, a true smile on her beautiful face now. "I wish for you to consider being that woman."

There are so many things Sansa wants to say: that she doesn't want to leave Winterfell, that she never wants to leave the safety of the North again, that she never wants to marry a man again, that she isn't certain she ever _really_ wanted to marry a man at all except that was what was expected of her. 

Instead she blurts out, "Would _we_..." before catching herself, face burning as hot as the Dornish desert.

Daenerys's smile becomes far more intimate as she says, "I certainly hope."


	22. Shopping (Catelyn/Lyanna)

"What do you think?"

Lyanna looks up from her phone, cocks her head to the side, and purses her lips. After a moment she asks, "Did you fuck your sister's fiancee?"

Catelyn recoils from the question, both because of the fiancee in question and the fact that her boyfriend's sister is asking it. "What?! No! Of course not!"

"Do you and Lysa get along?"

"She's my best friend."

Lyanna nods, getting to her feet. "Yeah, I think she hates you. Or at least wants you to look like ass at this wedding. It's the only excuse for..." She waves her arm at the bridesmaid's gown currently enveloping Catelyn's body. " _That_."

Catelyn frowns, studying her full body reflection in the 360 mirror. It _is_ hideous. Even it it wasn't a truly atrocious shade of orange that clashed with Catelyn's auburn hair and made her skin look like it was perpetually flushed, the halter-style neckline creates both a singular boob in the front and a wave of back fat when viewed from behind. From the way it flares and the extensive amount of tulle, it gives the impression Catelyn is shaped like a triangle with an extremely wide base, and there is no doubt she will sweat through the gown within five minutes of standing outside during her sister's June ceremony.

"Maybe it'll look better once it's fitted."

Lyanna appears behind her in the mirror, resting the point of her chin on Catelyn's shoulder. "Maybe it'll look better if we set it on fire."

Catelyn finally cracks a smile. "It's her wedding. If this is what she wants me to wear, I'll wear it."

"You're making me really glad I don't have sisters. If Benjen tried to make me wear that, I'd break his nose."

"It's different with sisters." She smiles at Lyanna in the mirror. "You wouldn't break _my_ nose, would you?"

Lyanna smirks. "There are several things I've done with you that I wouldn't do with an actual sister."

Catelyn's face falls and then turns stoic, and Lyanna sighs, stepping away from her. She sits back down on the uncomfortable velvet couch set up outside the dressing rooms, pulls her phone back out of her pocket, and, as she opens Instagram and begins to scroll just for something to keep her hands busy, says, "You're going to need a better poker face if you really plan on staying around for the next fifty years."

"Lya...I thought we agreed."

"We did." Lyanna lifts her grey eyes to look at her future sister-in-law, and Catelyn nearly recoils from the anger there. "Don't worry, Cat. I know how hard it is to live with Ned's disappointment. I wouldn't inflict that on anyone."

Catelyn hates that she is having this terrible conversation in a dress shop while drowning in tangerine fabric. "You know how much I care about you, Lya, but it was a mistake."

"Well...if you make the same mistake with Benjen, I think you get Stark bingo."

Catelyn's face crumples, eyes swelling with tears as she disappears into the changing room, and Lyanna waits until the door is closed before she lets her own tears fall, so jealous of her brother she can't stand it.


	23. Gold (Rhaella/Joanna)

The gown is Lannister crimson, gold thread used to embroider the bodice in intricate detail. Rhaella is surprised at how low the neckline is, the top of the gown designed to fall off of Joanna's shoulders and revealing the tops of her breasts. Said breasts are swollen from pregnancy, making the sight that much more attractive to every man that passes, and Rhaella doesn't even bother to hide her smile at the way Tywin scowls at each and every man who dares to admire his wife's decolletage. The Hand of the King loves his wife, Rhaella does not doubt that, but he also likes to show her off, remind all of court how his wife is the most beautiful woman there. However Tywin is also a selfish man who does not like to share, and so this same scene plays out at every feast.

Joanna, for her part, pretends she isn't aware of the men, including Rhaella's own husband, near salivating over her breasts and just smiles and answers their inane questions about her pregnancy.

Rhaella notices even Rhaegar, usually so unaware of women, stealing glances at Joanna, and she cannot help but tease her son, "When your father said to look for a wife, I do not think he meant married women expecting a child."

Rhaegar turns a ferocious shade of red that makes Rhaella laugh. "I was not - I would never - "

"She's a beautiful lady, sweetling. I'm only japing. Though Lord Tywin will not appreciate such a lack of subtlety."

"I do not understand it, how someone as kind as her is wed to someone like him."

Rhaella cannot help but let her own eyes drift towards her brother-husband. How many times has she wished for his death? How many times has she plotted it herself? Not even her sweet boy will ever truly understand what it is to be a woman and have so little choice in who you wed. At least Joanna chose Tywin for herself.

"Love is a complicated thing."

Halfway through the feast, not long after the dancing has started, Rhaella notices Joanna seated a table, one hand braced against her lower back with a frown on her face. Sensing her moment, Rhaella quickly crosses to her, Ser Barristan at her heels. When Rhaella rests a hand on Joanna's bare shoulder, she feels the same jolt of power go through her as she did the first time they touched, particularly when Joanna smiles at her and places her hand over Rhaella's.

"Let us find you a place to rest, Lady Lannister. A woman in your condition shouldn't be forced to sit on such uncomfortable seating."

Getting to her feet, resting her free hand on the swell of her middle, she admits, "I would like to rest. Ser Barristan, would you mind finding my husband and letting him know Queen Rhaella is finding me a place to rest?"

The knight's face gives away nothing, and Rhaella loves him even more for it. "Of course, my lady." He gestures for another member of the Kingsguard to accompany them, and once Ser Lewyn is with them, Rhaella takes Joanna's arm and leads her away from the feast. 

Once they reach Rhaella's chamber, she looks at Ser Lewyn as Joanna enters the room. "Do not disturb us unless Lord Tywin comes for her."

"And what of the king, your grace?"

"The king will not care where I am tonight." She smiles at the guard as she adds, "It will be an easy night for us both."

By the time Rhaella enters the chamber, closing the door and barring it, Joanna has already shimmied out of her gown and shift, naked on Rhaella's bed save for a gold and ruby necklace Rhaella gifted her on her last name day. At the time Rhaella worried it was too expensive a gift, but seeing the jewel hanging between Joanna's full breasts now, knowing she hasn't seen her lover without it since she received it, makes Rhaella's heart sing.

Admiring the curves of her body, Rhaella asks, "Were you truly tired or putting on a show so I'd rescue you?"

"I was tired of being anywhere but here with you." She extends her arms and Rhaella stops undressing long enough to slip into them, pressing her mouth against Joanna's. It has been too long since they were parted, and Rhaella has ached with the separation.

"I've felt like my blood as on fire this entire pregnancy," Joanna murmurs against her mouth, her hands tugging at the laces of Rhaella's gown. "If Tywin hadn't let us come tonight, I swear I would've stolen a horse and ridden to you. The fucking maester told him it isn't proper to bed a breeding woman."

Rhaella laughs, climbing off of the bed long enough to drop her gown and return to Joanna's arms, nude as she is. "Poor Jo, celibate as a septa."

"I was hoping you'd change that." Joanna takes her mouth again in a deep kiss before pulling away, resting her forehead against Rhaella's. "Gods, I've missed you. I could hardly stand it."

Rhaella touches the child, six moons gone, in Joanna's stomach. "After he's born, we'll go somewhere together for you to recover. Dragonstone, Dorne, the Stormlands, I don't care. I'll take you to the bloody Wall if you want. But it'll be just us: no husbands, no children."

Joanna nods, humming with pleasure as Rhaella's hand drifts upward to cup one of her breasts. Settling onto her back, she declares, "I'll tell Tywin tomorrow then. Once Tyrion arrives, I am returning to serve my queen."

Kneeling between Joanna's splayed legs, Rhaella offers, "Until then, let _me_ serve _you_."


	24. Blessed (Sansa/Margaery)

"We have to stop," Sansa gasps as Margaery begins to tug down the sleep shorts Sansa wore to bed, her eyes fixed on the glowing lights of the alarm clock on the bedside table. 

"You promised me debauchery in your childhood bed," Margaery says, managing to the get elastic waistband over Sansa's hips as she squirms with pleasure, and Margaery wants to curse when she realizes she still has underwear to wrestle off of her girlfriend. When will Sansa learn to wear less clothing to bed?

"I have to go help Jeyne. It's my job to dress Ned for the christening."

"I'm sure his mother is more than capable of putting a dress on him."

"It's a gown, and I'm the godmother. It's tradition for the godmother to dress - Oh, god, Margaery!" 

Having given up on removing the underwear, Margaery instead just pulled them to the side so she can stroke Sansa's cunt. If there's one thing she knows about her girlfriend, it's that her objections tend to disappear once you actually get your hands on her, and Margaery plans on getting a whole lot more than her hands on her.

"If you spent less time arguing with me, you could be halfway there already." Margaery suckles at Sansa's collarbone before scraping it with her teeth. "You always get so tense at family functions. I'm just trying to help."

Sansa would laugh if she wasn't feeling so breathless. "Maybe I'm so tense because my girlfriend is a nympho and my parents aren't exactly the most relaxed about sex."

"Which is why I'm a gift to you. A blessing even." Margaery smiles, easing two fingers inside Sansa and swallowing her moan. "Don't you feel blessed?"

"I don't really remember Sister Mordane teaching us about this sort of blessing." 

"Yet another one of the failures of the Catholic Church." Realizing Sansa is now pliant and on board for a little pre-christening fooling around, Margaery pulls down her underwear and comes to rest between her splayed legs. "Now be a good girl while I take communion."


	25. Split (Arya/Brienne)

"This is torture," Arya groans through clenched teeth as her coach pushes on her lower back, deepening the split Arya had thought was already deep enough. 

"If you didn't cheat on your conditioning, it wouldn't be," Brienne says, and though the older woman is behind her, Arya is sure she has one of those small smiles on her face. 

"Oh, like you were doing splits when you competed." Arya gasps in gratitude as the pressure on her lack finally lessens, and she drops back onto her butt, shaking out her legs. "You're a monster."

"You're the one who said you wanted to increase your beam difficulty. Flexibility is required for that."

"I meant I wanted to throw in a standing Arabian or something, not dislocate my hips."

"Well, your leaps on floor could use some work too." Brienne extends her hand, pulling Arya to her feet easily. "Being the best means doing things you don't want to do."

Arya is tempted to say something smart but stops. Since switching to this gym, Brienne has helped her improve her form on every event. If she wants to test for elite, listening to Brienne is the way to go. And unlike Brienne, whose gymnastics career came to an end when a sudden growth spurt wreaked havoc on her skills, Arya is certain she will die just barely clearing 5'0" so the only things that can stop her are injuries or laziness.

"Show me five switch rings and let's see if these exercises are paying off," Brienne says, and Arya's stomach does a little flip as she realizes there's a third thing that can stop her: her persistent, embarrassing crush on her coach.

 _She is your coach_ , Arya reminds herself as she preps for the first leap, launching herself into the air and throwing her head back to try to meet her back foot. _She is probably not into girls. Even if she **is** into girls, you're sixteen and she doesn't want to go to jail. It's a freaking cliche. You don't even know if you really like girls or you just have a stupid crush. You liked it when Gendry kissed you. That means you shouldn't want to make out with your coach._

As she lands her fifth leap and looks to Brienne, her coach smiles, warm and encouraging, and Arya wonders how exactly a person finds out if their coach is into girls and if they're willing to wait until she's 18 to have a relationship.


	26. Comfort (Alys/Val)

The kneeler girl is a skinny thing, thin skin stretched over prominent bones. As she dries herself after her bath, Val thinks she can count every rib bone. She always thought kneelers ate better than her people, but it looks like this girl hasn't had a full meal in months. 

She isn't really a pretty thing. Her dark hair is long but unremarkable, a smattering of freckles on her long face, and it isn't until she smiles that Val glimpses what how pretty she _could_ be when she isn't fleeing from her family, starving in her desperation to reach Jon. Sigorn will be pleased with her no matter what, but Val knows he'll be even more pleased with this marriage deal once his bride blossoms into the girl she must've been before the war.

"You're shaking."

Alys looks over her shoulder, heat filling her cheeks as she wraps herself in a borrowed robe. "It's overwhelming, knowing I'm marrying a stranger tomorrow. Daryn, my betrothed who died, I'd known him for almost my entire life."

"Sigorn isn't so bad. There are worse men to wed." Val shrugs, picking up a knife sitting on their empty dinner plates. Holding it in front of her, the blade glinting in the firelight, she adds, "And you can always kill him if he's cruel."

Alys's laugh is equal parts amused and shocked. "Have you killed a husband?"

"No, just men who wanted to be one." Val smiles, setting the knife back down. "Free men steal women they want. I am no one's to steal."

"You must be very brave."

Val touches Alys's warm cheek with the back of her fingers, and the younger girl's eyes close for a moment at the contact. "After all you did to reach the Wall, I think you brave as well, Alys Karstark."

"You think me brave?"

"I've never met a woman of the North who isn't." Val slides her fingers to the steep ledge of Alys's collarbone, tracing the length of it across her chest before drawing her index finger into the valley between Alys's small breasts. "Did your Daryn ever lay you down?"

Alys shakes her head, inhaling sharply as Val tugs at the belt of her robe, pushing the material off of her shoulders. "It wouldn't have been proper."

Val snorts, cupping Alys's breasts with both hands, her thumbs gliding over her hardened nipples. "You kneelers and your propriety. Is this proper, Lady Alys?"

A sharp moan escapes Alys's lips as she shakes her head. "Most certainly not."

"But it feels good, hmm?" Val steps into her body, hands slipping to Alys's narrow hips. She takes her mouth in a bruising kiss, surprised when the smaller girl parts her lips to accept Val's tongue. "Sigorn will fuck you tomorrow. He'll be the only man you ever fuck, won't he? That's how you kneelers do it?"

"Aye," Alys manages, arching her mouth towards Val for another kiss, which Val easily provides.

"A woman should go to her marriage bed knowing how to fuck," Val breathes against her mouth, urging Alys backwards towards the narrow bed of the chamber. "She shouldn't be afraid, cowering like a frightened animal."

Alys's voice is weak as she says, "I am not - "

Val catches her chin, squeezing the words to stop. Locking eyes with Alys, she says, "You are no frightened animal, Alys. Let _him_ be scared of you."

Alys nods, lips parting as she breathes hard, and Val watches as the fear leaves her grey-blue eyes, steel strengthening her spine. And the girl says, "Do you plan on teaching me how to fuck, Val?"

Val grins, pushing the girl back onto the bed. "Aye, like a true lady of the Free Folk. And you know what that means, sweet girl?" When Alys shakes her head, Val kisses her, pressing her body against Alys's naked one. "It means Sigorn may be the only man you ever fuck, but I guarantee I won't be the only woman you will."


	27. Space (Sansa/Dany)

"You're safe on this."

Sansa looks up as the tiny blonde captain hands her a mug of spicy smelling tea. She wraps her cold hands around the mug, letting the warmth sink into her skin. "Thank you."

They sit in silence for several minutes as Sansa sips the tea before Daenerys ventures, "I've never seen a girl from the Northern planets out this far, at least not without a husband or her family."

Sansa freezes for a minute before saying, "I'm not married."

"And your family?"

"They're gone."

"So's mine. It can be hard, being a woman alone in the galaxy." When Sansa doesn't offer anything else, Daenerys says, "I can't quite place your accent. Which Northern planet are you from? I've been to near all of them."

"Winterfell," she answers automatically before catching herself, blue eyes going wide as she looks at Daenerys. "I mean - that is to say - "

Daenerys sets her hand over Sansa's. "You'll find no Lannister loyalists on this boat, Sansa. And I'm being too casual, aren't I? If you're Sansa Stark, I should be calling you 'Queen.'"

"I'm no queen. I'm nothing, no one. Joffrey saw to that."

The older woman's face hardens with anger, but she swallows it back. "Who do you know on Eyrie?"

"My mother's sister and her son are there. I thought they might take me in. If not, I'm decent with a needle. I thought I could find work as a seamstress or something." She laughs, a sad sound that hints at tears. "Gods, that sounds so stupid when I say it out loud."

"It isn't stupid. But is that what you want, to mend dresses?"

Sansa shakes her head. "I don't have anywhere else to go though."

"You can read, Sansa, can you not?"

"Yes, my lady."

Daenerys smiles. "It's been a long time since anyone's called me a lady. It's mostly 'Captain' these days."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I - "

Daenerys laughs, waving her hand to cut off her apology. "You didn't offend me. Anyway, what I was saying was, I have a girl on my crew named Missandei. She translates for us, but unfortunately she and I are the only ones onboard who can read Common Tongue. I could use another crew member who can read, present themselves well, maybe even work a little charm on inspectors when we dock. It's no castle, but we have an empty bunk you could call your own." Seeing the way Sansa's eyes dart towards Jorah and Grey Worm standing near the door, Daenerys takes her hands and swears, "No one will bother you on this ship, Sansa, or I'll throw them out the airlock myself. Ask any man or woman here. If you're part of my crew, you're safe."

Tears fill Sansa's eyes as she confesses, "I don't even remember the last time I felt safe."

Daenerys's own eyes wet with tears as she says, "Then I sincerely hope today is the last day you ever feel that way."

As Sansa's lips turn upwards into a smile for the first time since coming aboard _The Dragon_ , Daenerys feels her heart skip a beat and she knows - she just _knows_ \- Sansa Stark is going to break her heart.


	28. Princess (Rhaenys/Allyria Dayne)

"I can see the banners," Allyria says from her perch on Rhaenys's windowsill, her waist-length dark hair falling around her shoulders like a shawl, the only bit of covering on her curvy body.

Rhaenys rolls onto her stomach, as naked as her best friend. Propping her head on her hand, she complains, "Who cares? Come back to bed."

Allyria looks over her shoulder, a mischievous grin on her face. "What, you're not interested in your future husband? What if he's terribly ugly? What if he falls off his horse?"

"He could _be_ a horse and my father would still make me marry him." Rhaenys blows a dark curl out of her eyes. "Why are you wasting our last few moments together by watching banners? I have much more interesting things to explore over here."

Rising from the ledge, Allyria slinks across the room, the movement of her body reminding Rhaenys of the waves in the Summer Sea. "I've been exploring those things since we were four-and-ten."

"And such a wonderfully thorough explorer, you are," Rhaenys says, rolling onto her side as Allyria rejoins her in the tangled sheets. "My future husband and I could be wed a thousand years, and he'll never be as gifted as you."

"Flatterer." Allyria brushes her lips against Rhaenys's, more the hint of a kiss than an actual kiss, and she rests her forehead against the princess's. "Whatever am I going to do when you're turning to ice in the North?"

"Hush," she orders, the kiss she gives her friend far deeper than the one Allyria gave her. "Don't talk about that now."

"Rhaenys - "

She presses a thumb to Allyria's lips, something like desperation in her eyes. "Let's pretend one last time that it's just us forever, hmm? Please, Ally."

Allyria nods, letting the princess tumble her back onto the mattress, silently cursing the Northern boy who is going to take her love away from her.


End file.
